


that gold mine changed you

by ladyweasels



Series: the future's unwritten; the past is a corridor [1]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Foster Family, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dysfunctional Family, Family Dynamics, Family Feels, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Recreational Drug Use, Sibling Bonding, Wilbur Soot and Technoblade and TommyInnit are Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29645748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyweasels/pseuds/ladyweasels
Summary: Spending the last of his teenage years with a family that found each other much too late, it’s becoming increasingly more obvious that the future is soon approaching. Wilbur seems perfectly content with it, acquainted with the fact and ready to face what it holds for him. Tommy, on the other hand, dreads the moment that his older brothers will grow up and move away, afraid that it will only tear their fledgling family further apart.Or, In the aftermath of a house party with a horrendous ending, Wilbur and Tommy discuss the imminent and uncertain future.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: the future's unwritten; the past is a corridor [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2198778
Comments: 10
Kudos: 125





	that gold mine changed you

**Author's Note:**

> uhm im back ???  
> (honestly never thought i'd say that, but here i am). big apologies for the shitty summary. please expect more from me :]
> 
> the lore recently has been a rollercoaster, but here is a little escape <3
> 
> cw (as mentioned in tags): mentions of alcohol, smoking
> 
> title from the gold by manchester orchestra (phoebe bridgers version)

It’s two in the morning and the night is blissfully quiet. 

Guided by the sparse light of the street lamps, Wilbur stumbles down the sidewalk.  
  
A thin sliver of a crescent moon flickers dimly above him. The crickets perform their nightly routine— a gentle, melancholy tune. The intermittent scuffing of trainers on concrete and the soft sound of rustling fabric conduct the steady symphony, a gentle rhythm behind the impassioned rise and fall of the music. 

The midnight wind is harsh and relentless, and the brown fur-lined coat that Wilbur has on, embellished with a number of crooked patches, does little to protect him. There had been an artificial warmth deep-seated in his chest for most of the night, self-imposed by a hefty bottle of Smirnoff, but the moment that he stepped outside, the feeling vanished like smoke in his hands. 

Alternating between breathing hot breath into his hands and wrapping his arms around himself protectively, he tries in vain to generate even the smallest amount of heat to carry himself over until he can make it home.

He’s so fucking cold.

For the briefest of moments, though he shoots the idea down quickly, he misses the warmth of the party. The blazing embers of the fireplace. The tightly-packed living room. Conversations in close proximity, nearly face-to-face in the overwhelming darkness. 

But it’s too late to go back now.

He’s already left, already made his dramatic exit. The grand theater deserted, the stage blanketed in darkness, there’s no turning back.

The fight itself is nothing but a blurry memory in the back of his mind. He doesn’t remember much of it—it comes back in flashes, detached word fragments and scrambled images that, put together, only serve to confuse him even further. 

Standing in the middle of the living room amid a dozen watchful eyes, shouting his throat hoarse at some guy that had made some comment about him, the words had tumbled from his mouth faster than he could register them. 

He can’t remember what the guy had said to get him so ticked off. But then again, he can’t remember what he had said back either. Each time he tried, his mind drew a blank. What he could remember was nothing but a fragmented mess, scattered puzzle pieces put together to form an incomplete picture. 

_Strong arms holding him back. Sharp, urgent words whispered into his ear. A pair of imploring blue eyes. The word “stop” repeated like a broken record._

More clearly, he can remember the aftermath: his stinging cheek, burning red, not likely to bruise. Standing alone in the front yard, looking up at the figures crowded around the porch, staring at him pityingly.

Schlatt on the stairs with his arms crossed. _C’mon, Wil, you’re being ridiculous._

He needed to leave. He had originally planned to spend the night in the basement with everyone else, curled up on the couch, but surely that was out of the question now. 

Schlatt tried to stop him. So did Niki and Fundy and everyone else. 

He left despite their pleas, and no one came after him. 

Sobering up now in the dim moonlight, Wilbur makes his way home. His overnight bag, half-unzipped, is slung over one shoulder.  
  
His feet move autonomously, taking him left at a stop sign, then right and then left again. The narrow, winding street, lined with a sloped sidewalk, is lit up by street lamps scattered at too-far intervals. 

The route itself is a familiar one, though admittedly he’s never done it as drunk as he is. He stumbles a bit, unsteady on his feet. Thankfully, he lives only a couple of blocks from Alex’s house, so it doesn’t take him very long. 

The familiar turn onto Lionheart Circle is one that he’s taken many times before. The white-paneled house nestled in the far left corner has been his home for nearly six years now. It’s a simple Colonial with big, symmetrical windows, facing the sunrise in the east. The front door is hand-painted, peeling, and green, desperately in need of another coat. A neat array of bushes line the front of the house, trimmed to near perfection. 

The cracked driveway, washed clean by a recent rainstorm, has four little handprints pressed into the concrete, increasing in size from smallest to largest. There are words etched underneath each: _Tommy, Wilbur, Techno, Phil. 2016_. 

Wilbur treks up the sloped drive, sneaking around to the back of the house.

Fumbling under the scant moonlight, he finds the spare key hidden underneath a hand-painted flower pot that he's pretty sure his older brother made in grade school. It takes him several tries before he finally manages to fit it into the lock. As he pushes open the door, a wave of sweltering heat spills out. 

The house is decidedly very dark. 

Wilbur only stumbles a bit as he steps inside, maneuvering himself over the welcome mat and groping around for the light switch. He pulls the door shut behind him, cutting off the circulation of cold air from outside. Just as he’s about to give up his fruitless search for the light switch and simply brave the uncertain darkness, the overhead light flickers to life. 

He freezes.

Momentarily blinded, retinas burning, he squints, trying to make out the hazy silhouette of a figure standing in the doorway. A long moment passes, and eventually his vision clears out enough for him to see:  
  
Phil is staring at him, hand hovering over the light switch. He looks alarmed and confused and… a million other things that Wilbur doesn’t have the stipulation to decipher. “Wil?” 

He’s wearing a matching pajama set, stripey and green, and his hair is mussed up at the back. He must have been asleep.

“You’re home?” Phil takes a tentative step forward. “I thought you were at Alex’s.” 

Wilbur feels both entirely sobered and completely and utterly gone at the same time. “It, uh, ended early.”

It must have been the wrong thing to say because, in an instant, Phil’s face drops. “It did?” Speaking very quickly, he begins to shoot off questions in rapid succession. “Is everyone alright? Did the cops come?”

 _Shit._ “No, no, no, not like that.” Wilbur, frantically, bullshits an attempt at damage control. “I just meant that, uh, a lot of people left and I thought that I should too.” A lie.

“Oh,” Phil says, sounding surprised, though he appears to have calmed down a bit. “Did something happen?”

Wilbur sighs. He doesn’t have the energy right now to explain it to anyone, much less to his dad. “No, it’s fine,” he answers quickly. He’ll deal with it in the morning. 

“Well, I guess you don’t have to stay the night if you don’t want to,” Phil says after a moment, and Wilbur has to suppress a relieved sigh. “But you better head off to bed then. Do you need anything? Water? You should probably get some water.” 

The suggestion is in and of itself is enough proof that Phil knows he’s been drinking. He appreciates the sentiment, but more than that, he appreciates the fact that Phil’s such a lenient guy. Some of his friends' parents would lose their heads if their kid came home drunk at two in the morning.

Phil seems to understand, though, and Wilbur can’t ask for much more than that. Still, the prospect of opening up and explaining the conditions to his drunkenness is something that he doesn’t feel like testing right now. He’s not sure how Phil will take the news that he got into a fight (though, to be fair, with Techno as a son, he’s probably more than familiar with how that conversation goes).

Wilbur thinks he’s sweating. “M’fine,” he says, shaking his head dismissively. He finds that he’s able to move his feet again, and he turns toward the stairs to make his swift escape. “And I’ll get some water.”

“You better,” Phil scolds him lightly. “We’ll talk in the morning.” 

At the foot of the stairs, Wilbur turns to meet his concerned gaze. Hanging his head, he nods guiltily. He expected as much. He’s not getting off that easy. 

Phil simply smiles. “Goodnight.”  
  
“‘Night.”

Wilbur takes the stairs slowly, leaning heavily against the wooden rail. He realizes belatedly that he’s still wearing his shoes, and though they do wonders to help his feet grip the stairs, he’s not technically supposed to wear them this far into the house. He makes it eventually and despite all odds, though he nearly trips on the last step.

The hallway is dimly lit by a small novelty night-light. It's there to help his older brother, prone to night terrors, find his way to the bathroom. Wilbur uses it for the same reason, pulling open the bathroom door and flipping on the light. 

For Phil’s sake, he’ll pour himself some water. He picks up an empty glass off the counter and runs it under the tap. Filling it up nearly halfway, he takes a small, experimental sip. He cringes, _Tap water is fucking disgusting_. He dumps out the rest of it and turns off the running water. He sets the cup back down on the counter, shuts off the light, and closes the bathroom door behind him.

He heads over to his bedroom, pulls open the door, and steps inside. He closes and locks it behind him. Sighing, he toes off his shoes and kicks them into the corner. He takes his exasperation out on his overnight bag, chucking it across the room. It hits the far wall with a dull _thunk_ and falls limp on the ground, doubled over in half. 

He shuffles over to his lamp and flicks it on, tugging on its metal chain. Submerged in dim orange light, the room suddenly looks more lived-in and less like a prison cell.

It’s comparatively clean by teenage boy standards, but certainly not by anything else. Clothes are piled in front of the bifold closet and the full-length mirror. The desk and the floor beside it are covered in loose-leaf paper. 

There are old notebooks sitting strewn about the carpet and textbooks stacked on top of each other. A map of the world hangs crookedly on the wall over the bed, held up by three bright red thumbtacks. A ceramic plate, wiped clean, sits on the desk along with about five empty glass cups. 

Wilbur sighs and flops down onto his bed, face shoved into the pillows. Immediately, he feels something sharp dig into his hip. Wincing, he sits up. It’s his cellphone, rammed into his pocket. It flickers on as he takes it out. 

The time reads 2:27AM. The lock screen is a picture of Wilbur and Tommy, arms wrapped tightly around each other, bundled up with scarves and hats and gloves, standing in the middle of a crowded city street. Amid about a dozen missed messages, the most recent from Schlatt, _cant believe you_ , the smiling, oblivious faces of Wilbur and his little brother stare mockingly up at him. 

He shuts off his phone and tosses it across the room. It bounces on the carpet and clatters to the floor, unharmed. 

Schlatt is mad at him. Phil is mad at him. _Everyone_ is mad at him. 

Pushing himself up on wobbly arms, he drags himself to his feet. 

Tucked in between the folds of an old dress shirt stuffed in the back of his closet, he finds a plastic bag full of everything he needs— his emergency stash. He takes an old bath towel out of his dirty clothes hamper and lays it down in front of the locked door. 

A somewhat familiar routine. Rare, but familiar.

He smokes from his window seat. It’s unquestionably his favorite part of his room. He spends a lot of time there, curled up on the plush cushion. It's where he plays his guitar, experimenting with new lyrics and chords, strumming to a silent beat.

Now, leaning his back against the wall, his side tipped against the cool glass, he smokes from it. He unlatches the window, letting it swing lazily outward on its hinges. With deft fingers, he rolls himself a joint and lights up. 

The smell of weed reminds him of the city. A memory, unbidden, comes to mind.

Their first family trip together to New York City. Phil had been called there on business, and because the trip was paid for, all costs covered, he had decided to take his kids with him for their first full-family vacation. Though, at that point, Wilbur and Techno had been part of their fledgling family for a few years now, Tommy had only been adopted a couple of months prior, surprised on his birthday with official-looking papers and a new last name. 

Tommy liked seeing all the people. Techno didn’t. Wilbur was stuck somewhere in between.

He remembers wandering down the streets of Manhattan, donning a scarf and a pair of knitted gloves that he didn’t really want to wear, cheeks and nose stained red from the biting cold. 

He remembers the little Italian place near Times Square they had eaten at merely to escape the strong, bitter winds, crammed into a booth nestled in the far left corner. He remembers that Tommy, the little gremlin, had eaten a handful of table salt there, waiting for their food to arrive, and that Phil had to fight off a laugh as he scolded him for poor table etiquette.

He remembers perfectly the flagstone streets and the tall, looming buildings, stretching up toward the sky. The constant noise— blaring car horns and shrill sirens, the droning chatter of accented voices, and, best of all, the lively music of echoing subway stations, the keyboard pianos, the acoustic guitars, and the paint bucket drum sets. 

Very clearly, he remembers standing amid a crowd of people, staring in awe at an old man with graying hair and wrinkled eyes as he played the steel guitar, fingers dancing up and down the fretboard, plucking strings with an unmatched perfection. 

Most of all, he remembers the smell of smoke. It was everywhere he went, an inescapable pressure on his chest.

He associates it now with the city.

A soft knocking at his door pulls him back, unwilling, to the present. The joint burns low in his fingers. His chest is on fire. He says nothing in place of a response, hoping that whoever is there will give up and leave.

A moment passes, so long that Wilbur is sure that whoever is there has already left, but then, the knocking picks back up again, louder and, this time, accompanied by a voice. “Wil?” A whisper through the door. Tommy. “You there?” 

Wilbur sighs. “No,” he says.

Tommy tugs on the doorknob. It doesn’t budge. “Can you let me in?” 

“No." 

“Please?" He tries again. No dice. "I just want to talk.” 

“It’s two in the morning,” Wilbur points out. “Can we talk tomorrow?”

He hears nothing for a long moment. Then, so quietly that he wonders if he'd imagined it, Tommy whispers again, voice breaking slightly, “Please?”

Wilbur caves because he always does when it comes to his little brother. He sets the joint down on the sill, shuffles over to the door, turns the lock, and pulls it open. 

Tommy is looking up at him through his eyelashes. Wearing a t-shirt that’s about two sizes too big for him and plaid pants rolled up at the hem, he suddenly looks more his age than Wilbur’s ever seen him. 

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, though, because there’s smoke pouring out into the hallway at an alarming rate and he doesn't think it would be smart to wake up the whole house to the pungent smell of weed. He grabs Tommy by the wrist, tugs him inside, and shuts the door behind him, replacing the towel at the bottom.

Tommy wrinkles his nose. “What the fuck is that smell?” 

Sluggishly, Wilbur clambers back onto the window seat and picks up his joint, an explanation in and of itself. Tommy holds off a comment about it. Instead, he takes the seat across from him, sitting cross-legged on socked feet. 

Wilbur eyes him curiously. “Did I wake you up?”

Tommy shakes his head. It wasn’t unusual for him to be up at odd hours of the night, hunched over his computer. “No, I was already awake.” He brushes off the question, refusing to elaborate. Instead, pointing an accusing finger at the smoking joint, he says, “I didn’t know you smoked.” 

Wilbur glances down at it. “I don’t _really_ ,” he says. “Only occasionally, when I feel like it.” 

Tommy nods like he understands. “Does Phil know you smoke?” 

Though he doesn't sound very convinced, Wilbur says, “Eh, probably not?”

He had taken special care to keep everything well-hidden. Smoking only in the dead of night with the window cracked and the door blocked, the smell would be gone by morning. The dress shirt in the back of his closet was an ingenious hiding place— one that Phil would never in a million years think to check. 

Still, he had his doubts. Phil had a way of finding things out, picking up on little, infinitesimal details and making eerily-accurate conclusions based on them. Sometimes, his knowing looks were a little too knowing, and Wilbur, shrinking under his gaze, was sure that Phil knew exactly what he was hiding.

“What do you think he would say if he found out?”

Wilbur narrows his eyes.

Catching on, Tommy raises his hands in surrender. “Not that I’m going to tell him or anything,” he says innocently. "Just wanted to know."

Wilbur lets up. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But I don’t want to be there to find out.” 

Nodding vigorously, Tommy agrees, “Me either. Phil’s a scary bastard when he wants to be.” 

Wilbur perks up, hit full-force with a vivid memory. “Do you remember that time he told off one of Techno’s teachers?” It was over a misdemeanor for his ‘inattention in class’ and a ‘clear lack of work ethic.’ Techno was mortified. Phil evidently wasn’t too happy either. 

Tommy’s face splits into a broad grin. He appears to be similarly fond of the memory. “Yeah, yeah, he scared that guy so bad he looked like he was gonna get down on the floor and lick the bottom of Phil’s shoes.”

“Fuck that guy,” Wilbur says, and means it. “He shouldn’t have messed with Phil.” 

Tommy eyes him, watching him take another lengthy drag. “How long have you been smoking?” 

Wilbur shrugs. “Uh, like 10 minutes.”

“I meant when did you start? Officially.” 

Luckily, he doesn’t have to worry about his little brother snitching on him. Or at least he thinks he doesn’t… He’s honestly not sure. “A couple months ago,” he says anyway. “At a party.”

_Schlatt’s basement. A bong passed around in a circle._

“Where do you even get it?”

“From Schlatt, who gets it from someone else,” Wilbur says. “Schlatt charges me extra, but it saves me from having to haggle for it. I don’t want to be tied to anything like that. He’s a better middle-man anyway, and he’ll cover for me if he has to.” 

He refuses to acknowledge the fact that Schlatt is currently very pissed at him.

“I bet Schlatt tricks the seller into knocking down the price for him too. He probably makes profit off you," Tommy says. "Or 'mad profit' as Schlatt would say."

Wilbur shrugs, indifferent. “It’s worth it.” 

Tommy gives him a strange, indecipherable look. A brief moment follows where he says nothing, appearing deep in thought, brows furrowed and drawn together. Then, gasping suddenly as if struck with an astounding thought, he says, “How was the party?” 

Wilbur had sensed that this was coming. It doesn’t make him anymore prepared to answer. 

Admittedly, and for good reason, he feels considerably calmer than he had when he first met with Phil at the back door. He has the weed to thank for that. It loosened him up, fused with the alcohol still in his system, and left him with a staticy feeling in the back of his brain. 

So he decides to say _fuck-it_ and tell him. He reasons that Tommy deserves at least an attempt at an answer, so he finds himself latching loosely onto the truth. “Pretty shit,” he says darkly. “We all got drunk and stupid.”

“Weren’t you supposed to stay the night?”

Wilbur shakes his head guiltily. “I pissed everyone off,” he says. “Got into a fight and pretty much kicked myself out.” 

Tommy’s eyes widen. “You got into a fight?”  
  
Nodding, he says, “With some guy. Can’t even remember what he said.” The memory is as blurry as it had been an hour ago. “It was probably something stupid. Everyone else seemed to think so.” 

The strange look returns. “Did you get hurt?”

Bitterly, Wilbur says, “Not unless you count getting bitch-slapped.”

Tommy lets out a breath that sounds somewhere halfway between an exasperated laugh and an ardent sigh of relief. “Did you get one back on him?” 

Wilbur shakes his head, dismayed. “Of course not,” he says, holding up a gangly arm as evidence. “Have you seen me?” 

“It doesn’t take a strong guy to bitch-slap someone,” Tommy points out. “I’m sure if you'd mentioned Techno, though, he would’ve gone and shit his pants.”

Wilbur nods dutifully. “Our brother’s reputation precedes us.”

“We’ll never live up to that high of a standard,” Tommy agrees. 

“It’s unattainable.”

“Unreachable.”

The two look at each other for a long moment, stone-faced, and then burst into a fit of laughter. Bonding over their older brother is common ground for them. It had been what first brought them together on the day Tommy had been introduced to the house, thirteen and so unbelievably bitter.

Tommy manages to compose himself first, though as his laughter fades, so too does his candor. Staring down at his hands, eyes avoidant, expression guarded, his whole demeanor seems to have changed. Wilbur, taking careful note of this, reigns in his laughter. 

For a moment that seems to stretch on for hours, Tommy says nothing. Wilbur grows increasingly more worried as the seconds tick idly by. Just as he's about to ask, tentatively, if he's feeling alright, Tommy heaves in a breath. “You know,” he says, looking sheepish, “the reason I couldn’t sleep was because I was worried for you.”

Dazed, Wilbur can’t fight off the thick saccharide of emotion in his voice. “You were?”

Tommy nods. “I heard about the kind of shit that happens at those parties. Alex and I partner up all the time in Finance.” 

Wilbur didn’t even know that Alex and Tommy knew each other. Why did no one tell him anything? 

“He told me that sometimes people show up that he doesn’t invite,” Tommy goes on, “And that people usually end up doing some questionable shit.” 

Sounds about right. And this time, it was him doing the questionable shit.

“And I was worried because you go to his parties too.” Then, like a shaken-up soda bottle that's been uncapped, he explodes. In one long-drawn breath, words running together, tripping over one another, he blurts out, “ _And I’m fucking scared because I haven’t really come to terms with the fact that Techno’s going off to college in a couple of months and that you’re not too far after him_ —”  
  
“Tommy—”

“ _And after you leave I’m gonna be alone with Phil for three whole years and it's going to be so fucking weird without the two of you there and_ —”

“Tommy—”

“ _Then I’m gonna have to make that same big life decision that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to make because I_ —”

“Tommy!” 

Finally, he quiets. Sucking in a sharp breath, he hangs his head in shame. “Sorry,” he mumbles.

“Don’t be sorry,” Wilbur says firmly. “I know how you feel.”

Tommy looks up at him hopefully. “You do?”

He nods in reassurance. “It feels like even though we finally got a chance at a family later than everyone else, and it’s still being torn apart.” He doesn’t think he’s ever voiced this aloud— not to his therapist, not to anyone. “Honestly, I’ve only just come to terms with the fact that Techno’s leaving in August.”

He remembers the moment he realized it, sitting at the kitchen table with his brothers and Phil, watching curiously as Techno tore open another acceptance letter— this one, to his dream school— with shaky hands. Techno had unfolded the letter and began to carefully read it, eyes scanning the page all the way down to the very bottom. A long moment had passed where his expression was blank and unreadable, but then, in an instant, a blinding smile spread across his face and Wilbur knew exactly what the letter said.

Techno, in his hunt for colleges, had opened a lot of acceptance letters, all of which held promising results. None had gotten this type of reaction out of him. 

Wilbur, watching Phil stand up to congratulate him, noted that Techno seemed genuinely excited, and in one dizzying revelation, he finally began to understand what this meant for the both of them. Techno was leaving and there was nothing he could do about it.

Even then, Tommy had been less than pleased with the news. He had hardly masked the canned bitterness in his tone when he went up to congratulate his eldest brother, and Techno, too excited to notice, had taken it for genuine praise. 

Now, Tommy, at the news that Wilbur had raised his own white flag in surrender, shakes his head, unable to do the same. “I can’t.”

“That’s okay,” Wilbur reasons.  
  
“Is it?”  
  
“These things take time—”  
  
“Do they?” Tommy sounds bitter. “I’m supposed to sit here and let all this happen? All of a sudden I’m being body-slammed with the harsh fucking reality that time never stops."

“First it was finding out that Techno's 100% going to college," he goes on, "and now it’s finding out that you go to all these crazy parties and break about ten laws for seemingly no reason at all?”

Tommy sucks in a sharp breath, holds it for a couple of seconds, then lets it go. “I don’t want us to grow up,” he says in a small voice. “I want things to be like they were.” 

_When?_ Wilbur wants to ask. He wonders if they’re thinking of the same time. The summer when it was warm, skipping across the creek behind their house, sprawled across the grass in the park, dirty palms and ruined jeans. Or the winter when it was cold, making snow angels in the front yard, bundled up by the fire in the living room, baking cookies in the kitchen. 

He isn’t sure how to answer without waxing poetic or sounding overly-cheesy. He’s not a therapist, and definitely isn’t qualified to be giving out this kind of advice when he himself has only recently come to terms with it. Also, not to mention the fact that he still feels a little out-of-out thanks to the alcohol he had earlier and the joint that he’s currently almost smoked to the filter.

Finally, he finds his words. “It’s hard to face the truth. I want things to be like that too,” he says, “But they can’t. You ruin your life if you hold onto the past and dread the future."

“How so?” 

“If you spend all your time worrying about what’s gonna happen in a few months, or a few years, you lose the present. We're gonna think back to living in this house and regret that we were too worried about other stuff to enjoy the time we have here.” 

Tommy looks troubled, like he wants to believe him but can’t. “But I can’t ignore it.”

Wilbur doesn’t blame him. “Change can suck sometimes. We’re supposed to find a way around it. When Techno leaves, it’ll just be the two of us. And we’ll call him every night before dinner and he’ll tell us about his professors and the people in his classes and we’ll tell him about what we did in school and you can tell him about something stupid you and Tubbo did that week.” This comment coaxes out a subdued smile. “It’ll be different but the same.” 

Tommy hangs his head. “What about when you leave?”

“I’ll still call every night,” he promises. “And I’ll tell you about _my_ professors and the people in _my_ classes. And I’ll play you music on my guitar and learn tabs to songs that you like. And watch movies over Discord and video chat while I eat, like, fucking ramen or something.” 

“Will you help me with my geography homework?”

Wilbur lets out an airy laugh. “If you promise to put in some work too. I’m not doing it all for you.”

In response, the left corner of Tommy’s mouth lifts into a mischievous smirk. “I will.”

Wilbur doesn’t believe him in the slightest. He plays along anyway. “I don’t leave for another year and a half. If you start now, you can have everything memorized by then.”  
  
“Geography is stupid,” Tommy complains. “Why can’t we all just be one big country?”

“People fought and died for there to be countries,” Wilbur explains for what feels like the hundredth time. “If we were all one big country, no one would get along.” 

“It’s still stupid,” Tommy grumbles, though he seems convinced. 

The wind whistles through the open window, and it reminds Wilbur of the street performers in New York, blowing notes into empty milk bottles. 

A lone cricket chirps. A neighborhood dog barks.

Tommy peers out the window. “I know that we’ll call and everything, and you made a good point about thinking too much about things that are out of your control,” he aquisises, “But I still don’t know what I’m gonna do once you and Techno leave.” 

“Me either.” And he really doesn't. He's not sure where he wants to go, or what he wants to study. He doesn't know what'll happen in a couple of years, doesn't even know what'll happen tomorrow. All he knows is that they're all still together now, and he supposes that's what matters. “We play it by ear?”

Tommy shrugs. “Guess so.”

A silence follows, accompanied only by the sounds that stream through the open window. Wilbur smokes the last of his joint down to its very end and Tommy, eyes unfocused, stares outside, seemingly deep in thought. 

Eventually, the joint gets low enough to where he’s forced to give up on it. Like parting with a loved one. He sticks his hand through the open window and puts it out on the brick ledge outside, an inconspicuous and safe place to extinguish a kindling fire. Tommy’s eyes follow him curiously as he moves. 

Then, pulling himself to his feet, stretching his arms languishly over his head, Wilbur takes his stash and tucks it back into the folds of the old dress shirt hanging in the back of his closet. 

Satisfied, he shuts the door and collapses onto his bed in a crumpled heap, face pressed into the cool pillows. The night is quickly catching up to him. He can already feel himself, unwilling, start to doze. 

Tommy’s voice reels him back, sheepish and tentative. “Can I sleep in here?”

Thoroughly surprised, Wilbur lifts his head off of the pillow and peers up at his little brother, eyeing him suspiciously. Deeming the question genuine, he nods, suppressing the nostalgic smile that threatens to spread across his face. “‘Course.”

Tommy practically beams in response. 

Wilbur hands him a pillow and blanket off of his bed, both of which he takes gratefully, setting them up on the small window seat. Though it looks to be quite a tight fit, Tommy doesn’t complain as he curls up contentedly, pulling the blanket up to his chin and nuzzling into the pillow like a dozing cat. 

Groggily, Wilbur shuts off the lamp on his bedside table and climbs under his covers. The window is still open, a cavity of cool air. The ambient noise of the night accompanies only the soft sound of steady breathing as two brothers eventually doze off.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much !! 
> 
> i just wanted to let you know that i appreciate you and that this will always be a safe space <3
> 
> update as of march 11, 2021: i'm currently working on another fic in this universe that takes place a couple of months before what happens here!! it'll explain a lot about wilbur as a character, his relationship with his friends (and why they got so pissed at him), and just WHAT the guy at the party called him out on


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